


The Best of Heaven and Hell

by LadyMaya



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q Reverse Bang, Angel!James Bond, BAMF Q, Canon-Typical Violence, FallenAngel!Q, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 01:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13493637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMaya/pseuds/LadyMaya
Summary: It was a common misconception that Heaven and Hell were fighting. Well, fighting each other that is. The two factions had been fighting since time began moving in a manner humans considered "forward". The human definition of "angels vs demons" was both wildly incorrect and completely accurate. It just required that one remember all the fallen angels were still angels and Demons were another matter entirely.James Bond runs afoul of a demon with a grudge, and Q rescues him.





	The Best of Heaven and Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Only_1_Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/gifts).



> *stares mystified* 
> 
> I did not write porn. I meant to. In fact I've spent the last week staring at it bitching about how it's not working. So instead you have mildly mushy, slightly open ended fluff instead. Maybe I'll add a sequel at some point.
> 
> I was lucky to get Truth's artwork for this challenge and I barely do it justice. Go stare in wonder!  
> https://only1truthfanfiction.wordpress.com/2018/01/27/more-art-for-the-2017-2018-00q-rbb/

It was a common misconception that Heaven and Hell were fighting. Well, fighting each other that is. The two factions had been fighting since time began moving in a manner humans considered "forward". That wasn't to say certain parties hadn't taken delight in torturing and killing each other on the side, but for the most part the human definition of "angels vs demons" was both wildly incorrect and completely accurate. It just required that one remember all the fallen angels were still angels, they just didn't dwell in the Silver City anymore, or trail along behind the people left in charge with simpering obeisance. Demons were another matter entirely. 

 

Demons were quite happy to snack on a human or angel, but they particularly enjoyed stripping the wings from their prey – whether that was a feathered representation of lightning and ice or leather and magma and shadow. They were the corrupted souls of the first beings, of Nephilim that had fallen into horror, the lingering malignant spirits of those who once called themselves gods. In general, they were simply not Human, nor Angel. 

 

James Bond was Angelic in all the ways that mattered most. He believed in God, in the Divine Plan, that humans were worthy of protection and love. So he did as He had been ordered – protect Humanity. He was quite happy to ignore all those pesky commandments humans were saddled with and thoroughly enjoyed fucking and fighting his way around the globe. He also had extremely sensitive wings made of ice and the cold breath of Northern Winds that were currently being tugged on by a particularly stubborn demon that just would not die! 

 

He shrieked as a clawed not-quite-hand managed to rip at the base of his wing, the sharp ache of grace and power being pulled away reminding him that this fight was not one to dally in. He spun in the air, pulling a weapon of light and grace from the ether and thrusting hard at the space not yet occupied. It landed well, slicing and twisting through the demon's shoulder, nearly severing its arm but it wasn't enough. There were others, swiping at his wings, taking damage just to get in close to claw at his sides. 

 

He swung and thrust again and again, dragging his wings inward, keeping them safe from poisoned claws, then shooting them outwards, stiff and sharp as much a weapon as the spear made of his own grace. 

 

It had been too long since he had used real power to fight, too long since he had needed to do so and his senses had dulled, coming back fast, but not quite fast enough to give him the upper hand and he sank into the unwelcome darkness of unconsciousness, one last pulse of awareness sent out to a home he had not realised he had. 

 

*~*~*~* 

 

The being known as Q enjoyed the 21st century immensely. Humanity as a whole was unaware of the metaphysical battle that raged around them but had advanced their technology so far from the middle ages (where he'd been burned at the stake twice! for witchcraft) that his minor miracles of wifi in zones that shouldn't have coverage were simply attributed to skill. His ability to see behind him lent credence to the idea of micro cameras in the walls, a magical marker on his agents was obviously just extreme skill with cameras and coding. Humans were ingenious and he adored their internet, the way it melded so well with the metaphysical world and yet stayed entirely in the realm of the physical. 

 

Case in point: his ability to keep track of 007. He'd not truly lost the Angel since taking over the job as Q, occasionally he'd been unable to make contact, but he always had a vague sense of where the angel was and how much pain he was in. Lots meant a fight he'd won and a vicious hunting happiness. Little tended to mean a very bored agent he was eager to keep out of his branch. 

 

Currently, however, his usual tricks were failing. Not that he was trying hard, Bond's mission had finished only a day ago and he wouldn't be heading back to HQ for several days yet due to the more delicate nature of this mission. His presence after the fact was more useful for intelligence gathering than heading back to London, but there's a niggling sense of doubt that hovers when he looks through the cameras of a densely populated tourist town and can't find his agent. His attention is demanded by yet another useless meeting about budgets and spending and it's all he can do as the meeting draws to a close not to scream in concert with 007 – halfway across the world from where he was supposed to be and in a great deal of pain. 

 

He excuses himself quickly, discarding almost immediately the thought of telling M, and hiding away in the well-shielded room he calls an office and ripping through the dark web, both physical and not, for information. His tenuous link with Bond is there, but quiescent and slippery like oil had been poured over it. He sinks into the chair he rarely uses, swinging side to side in sharp twists thinking about the sudden lack of information on 007. 

 

James was an angel of Heaven, and that lead to a certain reputation - bounties, death threats, requests for judgement and smiting, the occasional offer to carry a child. The dark realms of Fallen Angels and Demons were silent. All requests for James Bond had disappeared. In the human world, 007 had just as many threats, but only one was still active - and it had gone up just before James had been harmed, before being taken down just as quickly. 

 

An alert popped up on the screen he used for more arcane searches: 

 

James Bond, Angel of Heaven, Agent of MI6, Knight of the Golden Realms and Lord of the Sky Fall has been captured. Proof of life streaming will begin at 8am UTC. Bidding to begin at 1pm. All options available. 

 

Fuck. 

 

*~*~*~* 

 

The stream is well protected, eating up precious minutes of rune writing and code scribbling, a harsh, inelegant mix of styles and theorems scratched into walls and paper and computers and onto the very air itself. It gives eventually, piece by piece the wards against scrying go first and allow him to monitor his agent. It's not much use, he knew already that James was alive, and the walls surrounding him look – to the naked human eye – bare. The relief at seeing his agent in one piece is tempered by not knowing why James hurts despite looking no more rumpled than having been out to dinner. 

 

The second layer takes only minutes more and the once grey concrete fills in with an elegant script that flows between tar-black and dried-blood where it loops around the walls. It also sends a spike of dread through Q. James Bond is bound with barbed wire and demon tar, droplets of iridescent grace sliding from punctures and slices that glow sickly yellow at the edges. Angels don't get infections per say, but demon ichor has a similarly nasty effect as poison – it slows them down, takes its toll on the available energy and can probably kill eventually. It's not like they've ever just ignored an Angel in distress before, no matter which side they followed through the Fall. James' wings, bright light and cold winter feathers, were glowing sharp and he'd be willing to bet coldly biting, but they were covered in chains of red runes. Q squinted a little, trying to get a read on them, but left scowling at the lack of zoom ability in a scrying spell. 

 

More wards give way, nothing falling, just lifting a little here, twisting a little more there, nothing to give him away as he works his way through them, first a general sense of direction – he's being held on the physical plane. Then a location area that gets smaller and smaller as he goes until eventually he's all the way into an abandoned facility in the American South, feeling the heavy wet air, watching James struggle to breathe as the barbed wire of Demonic scripting keeps burrowing into his skin. 

 

He pulls back, absently noticing the offers already on display – rape, breeding, torture, feather/blood/nail requests, dissection in general and the arguments over the opportunity to pluck samples off a genuine Angel of the Lord versus his outright death for the scores of Demons and Humans he's destroyed over the millennia. 

 

Q shudders slightly as he looks over the options he has available. Most of his agents aren't Angels and are therefore an inappropriate choice. Only 004, 006 and 009 are Angelic, but 009 and 004 are Angels and would have the same issues as 007, any angel is worth something to these people. He winces slightly, 006 is still deep in the mess of Russian mobs versus mafia, each side with its own metaphysical encouragements. Angels enjoyed screwing with Humans, no matter which side they fell on. 

 

There was no one else. If anyone was saving the great James Bond, it would have to be him. 

 

~*~*~*~ 

 

He books a plane ticket with a grimace. The less he uses Grace to travel, the less likely they are to realise that something is coming after 007 but travelling the human way is horrid. Stuck in a loud metal tube with no fresh air, no technology, just trust that human ingenuity would battle Mother Nature and come out on top. He shudders, wrapping his own wings tighter, and reaching out to the metaphysical realm for a check on James as he hits the halfway point of the long plane journey. 

 

He's cutting it close by the time he lands, only a few hours left before the bidding war starts. His bags are full of the kind of tech he usually hands over to his agents – small-scale power busters, smoke bombs, earbuds, and radios – but also the ones he rarely feels it's necessary to use – tiny bombs with remote detonation, poisonous pens, palm print grenades. He slips an earbud in, attuning it to the second earbud and the radio that will boost the signal from his private servers. A gun at the small of his back, knife in both boots, wristwatch with all the extras strapped to his wrist and he's ready. The wards on and around the warehouse are just as hard to manipulate as the scrying ones, but, he breathes a sigh of relief, they weren't set by a High Demon, merely one of the corrupted souls that became demons. The wards are human based, despite the Demonic chains containing his agent and twist much easier than he'd hoped to accept a second Angelic being. 

 

Finding Bond isn't difficult, the warehouse is mostly empty at this edge, though there are several guards patrolling and a team in what he assumes is a break room or office at the other end. They're near the biggest sources of power drain anyway. James is as still as he was earlier, bloodier and more dazed, but no worse off than he had been. It takes a few moments to realise why – part of the spell work is keeping him a form of stasis, not exactly subdued, but caught in a moment of weakness. 

 

The spell is disturbingly simple to remove, specifically designed for the capture of Angels and other Beings of power. It's not the hardest to undo, after all, what use is a spell that can't be undone at will? Figuring out the pass phrase, on the other hand, would take too long, so Q does what he does best – he cheats. A drop of blood here, another there, a murmur of ancient Babylonian and there's a small sigh of sound as the enchantment sloughs off his agent. 

 

Q watches as James blinks back to awareness, a finger pressed to his own lips in a childish gesture for silence. James nods and Q turns to the wards on the walls. He couldn't see them clearly enough before, but they throb now, glowing brighter and he sighs irascibly. So much for a quiet extraction. 

 

'I don't suppose you bought me any toys did you Q?' 

 

He pulls out the second earpiece and flicks on the little radio before handing both over. He studies the glow, dripping a little more blood – this time it stretches out in a thin stream, arcane symbols that form themselves into the air before flowing to form a small ritual circle at their feet. 

 

'Put that in, if we get separated I need to know where you are.' He pulls the gun from the small of his back, handing it over after James has done as he asked. 'There's more ammunition in the bag, and some of those grenades you're so fond of. Be careful of the pens, they're filled with a synthetic venom.' 

 

There's no time to talk after that, the pulsing has reached a constant pitch that sounds through the air making them both wince. The glow shatters, little pieces of golden light turning sharp and deadly where it shoots toward them. It lands, not exactly harmlessly as the power to keep that shield up is draining him, but the shower of little golden sparks is pretty. He's breathing heavily by the time it ends, and he can see on the map in his mind where the dark dots of other beings are starting to surround their room. 

 

'So did you realise it was a trap before or after you set it off?' James smirks lazily studying the tail that is inscribing arcs like a pissed off cat. 

 

'Before, but there was no way to stop it totally. I just kept it from going off before I had you free. How are your wounds?' 

 

'Painful, but hardly likely to kill me.' 

 

'A rousing endorsement indeed, pass me those smoke bombs while you're at it, I might be able to use them later.' 

 

He accepts the toys James hands him, secreting them in other pockets that are easy to reach but would have made sneaking uncomfortable earlier. The last of the original room wards fail finally and they step out, heading down and away from the entrance Q used to get in. 

 

They had barely reached the end of the corridor when things went truly to shit. Q had only a few moments to appreciate how well 007 fought, to glimpse at the Soldier of God hidden behind sex and alcohol and insouciance before his own fight took all his attention. His cardigan was the first thing to go, shredded by demonic claws and used in the end to blind an opponent. A pen gripped backwards and stabbed through the eye of another, a dagger made of cold fire and the shadow of the void thrown into the chest of a third. The latter returns to him in a roar of sound, distracting his fourth fight admirably, and James slices across the throat suddenly unprotected. James has dispatched his own and the hallway is clear again. 

 

They follow the map Q has in his head, stopping occasionally to surprise a few more people and make it to the exit with only a scattering of scratches and bruises to show for it, well and Q's missing cardigan. He's down to two pens, the grenades – how James hasn't used them up he's not sure – and the smoke bombs. Both his knives are in the throat of a demonic determined to rid James of his wings and well, Q is a little protective. James had returned the favour with a bullet to the eye of a particularly troublesome demon a few minutes later so it had evened out. 

 

'I'm out of bullets Q, you got anything else for me in that magic bag of yours?' 

 

'Sorry, it's not a bag of holding, you'll have to make do with what you have left.' 

 

The exit is ahead of them, blessedly clear of enemies, though if they don't get to the edge of the properly in the next two minutes that will very much not be the case. Q decides to blame missing their window on Bond's luck. They've reached the end of the row of warehouses, a carefully hidden boat on the swamp to the left, city to the right and five Demons in between them all. It's not such a problem, or it wouldn't be if behind that set there wasn't an ogre. They're ugly brutes, nearly extinct in this day and age but still finding ways to cause chaos. 

 

Q shares a look with James and sees his own irritated but mildly gleeful emotions reflected in them. It's not often you get a chance to destroy something nearly indestructible after all, and Q's always had a fondness for explosions. 

 

They react together, surprisingly in tune with each other's movements despite usually acting on either side of a comm line. launching themselves forward, the outer two go down with the last pen and a bullet, though Q is scored across the ribs with a return bullet for leaving himself open. James grunts, the second of his opponents getting a lucky blow with the gun to his temple, and Q takes the opportunity to launch himself high, wings ripping through the fragile cloth of his shirt, and leaving himself in the perfect position to drop a grenade behind the ogre. 

 

James grabs him, whipping them around to shield them both from the resulting flash with a thin veil of ice blue light. The explosion doesn't take down the ogre but leaves the three enemies disoriented, prime targets for James spear and his own dagger. The ogre is half again as tall as he is, with rock-like skin and small eyes. The creases of his thighs, his neck, elbows and knees are the only places for traditional weaponry to pierce, and as such are covered with thick bands of metal that hang guard. 

 

He aims a dagger at the weld of the ogre's neck piece, but the cold flame does little but glance off it. James manages a solid hit, a starburst of ice on the left knee but his wing is caught in retaliation and a handful of feathers torn out in return. The last human tries to run, and Q takes delight in picking him off with a spelled dagger from his boot. The one formed of his grace returns to his hand, and this time lands solidly across James' previous blow. In its place, he leaves a welt, not deep, but enough that he's certain James will be able to crack it. It takes minutes more, minutes he's kept running ragged, keeping his own leathery bat styled wings from grasping hands, his limbs from the club the ogre wields, the rest of him out of the stabbing and slicing of James spear. Eventually, though he hears it crack as he pulling out the last grenade. He throws it at their feet, flinging himself upward and away while the bomb tears into the flesh. He manages to land the blow that cuts something important if the sudden stumble and burst of blood are to go by. James flies to meet him, out of reach now of the roaring being. 

 

'Do you want to confirm it's dead before we leave?' James is breathing heavily, blood everywhere and his left wing struggling to keep him from being lopsided in the air. 

 

'We should, but if we get to the boat I can call in a favour to have it contained.' 

 

The twist touching down nearly ten minutes later and Q calls in that favour, a tired grin on his face at the familiar irritated voice. He binds up the words of the cuts on the both of them, leaving James to steer them with Q's GPS as he talks. Organising a place to stay, clean up of the warehouse and leaving the threads of the empire he'd poked at to get to his Agent in the hands of the Americans. He'll check up on them later of course but for now it can be left to them. They fall into bed after reaching a hotel, exhaustion sinking them into a deep sleep on the one bed, wings splayed out, tangled together. 

 

~*~*~*~ 

 

Q wakes slowly, stretching carefully and shuddering as his wings return to the void. The feathers covering him are soft and glow gently in the morning light, a gentle coldness emanating from them that is a welcome relief from the sticky heat of their location. There's nothing particularly urgent to check over, honestly a welcome relief after the fear he'd had regarding getting James out by himself. He's a Fallen Angel, after all, stealth and guile and cheating are his usual preferences, not charging in all belief and power. 

 

'You think far too hard, my dear boffin. We survived, and have a comfortable place to relax for several days.' 

 

He shoots James a piqued look, 

 

'No Agent Bond, we'll be returning to medical to get that wing checked and do not try to snow me, I know how much it's hurting you or you'd have put them away by now.' 

 

'Maybe I was being conscientious?' A large hand runs over his stomach and he bats it away. 

 

'You're a horrible liar, we're going home and then you can have your way with me. After I'm certain I'll not yank something important while it's healing.' 

 

He slid out of bed with an arch look. 'Up Mr Bond, I've heard some very interesting things about your prowess and I'll not have you expire in the middle of my experiments.' 

 

He walked into the shower room, hearing the deep laugh and grinning in return. Who knows, he might even get shower sex out of it. 

 

FIN


End file.
